


The Devil's Bittersweet Triumph

by johnsarmylady



Series: The Devil and Sherlock Holmes [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:59:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back home in London, and there is just one more member of Moriarty's network to deal with, and with John planning the bring-down, what could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil's Bittersweet Triumph

London was alive with early morning traffic as Greg Lestrade made his way east to Canary Wharf.  He had been mildly surprised to receive John’s text, thinking that his friends were still out of the country.  And there had been something… _off_ …about the tone of the text, but when he had called the number, Sherlock had answered and confirmed that yes, they needed to speak to him.

The door to the apartment was opened by a very tired looking John Watson, who directed him into the familiar spacious living area and offered him a seat.

“What’s your poison, Greg?  Tea or coffee?”

“Uh, coffee John, thanks.  You okay?”

“Yeah, just a bit….y’know.”

Greg wasn’t sure that he did know, but decided it could wait.

Sherlock joined him as John served them both coffee, and got straight down to business.

“We’ve managed to destroy all but one of Moriarty’s followers, but we need your help to end this once and for all.”

“Yeah but…destroyed? What does that mean exactly?”

Sherlock stared, but bit back a snarky comment.  He’d seen and done too much for this to be taken lightly. 

“There were fifteen of them, and where we could, we handed them over to the authorities.” He caught the surprised look on Lestrade’s face and smiled briefly. “Mycroft made sure they will be properly dealt with.”

“And where you couldn’t?  How many couldn’t you hand over?”

Sherlock hung his head, a shudder running through him at the memories that resurfaced with the question.

Greg watched the young man as he tried to sort out his thoughts, realising that this was probably the first time he had ever seen Sherlock at a loss for words.  He glanced around the room and realised that John was nowhere to be seen.

“He’ll be back in a minute; he’s just getting some fresh air.” Sherlocks voice was low, and he tipped his head in the direction of the small balcony that could be seen through the large picture window. “This hasn’t been good for him; in fact, you have no idea how bad it’s been.”

“Tell me?”

“I wish I could,” shaking his head the young man leaned back in against the cushions and tilting his face towards the ceiling closed his eyes. “There’s one more, Greg. There is the sniper that was supposed to take John out.”

“And you know who it is? Stupid question, of course you know.” Putting his now empty cup on the table, Greg leaned forward, his hands hanging loosely in front of him, part of his attention on the still figure outside the building. “How can I help?”

With a sigh, Sherlock straightened up.

“I need to return.”

“And we need to let Mrs Hudson know he’s alive before he turns up on her doorstep and frightens her half to death.” John said softly, walking through from the bedroom and sitting as before on the arm of Sherlock’s chair. “We have a plan.”

O*O*O

 That evening, having persuaded her that John would like to see her, to discuss moving back to 221B, Greg drove Mrs Hudson to the apartment.  She was excited about the prospect of one of ‘her boys’ returning home, excitement tempered by sadness that it would only be one of them. Greg had been hard pressed not to tell her straight out, but John had been right, in the six months since the fall the landlady had grown a little frailer and no-one wanted to cause her harm.

As John opened the door, Mrs Hudson flung herself into his arms, clinging tightly to him and crying softly. Over her head he met Greg’s eyes, both men having anticipated this reaction. Gently rubbing soothing circles on her back, he eased her inside the apartment so that the older man could follow and close the door behind him.

“How are you Mrs H?”

“Oh John!  Are you really coming home?”

There was desperation in her voice, and a loneliness in her eyes that tugged at the doctor’s heart. He wiped away her tears, and smiled.

“If you can forgive me”

He had known the effect his words would have, as the diminutive woman pulled herself out of his arms and poked him hard in the chest.

“You, young man, should have come home a long time ago!  Don’t you tell me you’ve been waiting for forgiveness, because I won’t believe it.”

“I know, and I’m sorry Mrs Hudson, but I _am_ hoping I may redeem myself tonight.” He held out his arm and she slipped hers through, then together the three of them moved into the living room, where a dining table had been set for four.

Steering her away from that for a moment, John settled his landlady into an armchair and offered his guests a drink.  Mrs Hudson accepted a small glass of wine, while Greg opted for coffee. 

While John pottered about the kitchen making the hot drinks, Mrs Hudson sipped her drink and looked around at the well-appointed apartment.

“I see Mycroft has looked after you well.” She said a little sadly, her eyes drawn to the view of London at night, lit up and looking like something from a film.

“But it’s not home, Mrs H,” John said, leaning in the kitchen doorway, “and I want to come home.”

This was said with so much feeling that tears sprung once more to Mrs Hudson’s eyes, and even Greg had to swallow hard against the lump in his throat, and he wondered again what Sherlock had meant by his earlier comment.

Handing Greg his coffee, John carried his tea across and crouched in front of Mrs Hudson’s chair, looking up into her kindly face.

“Mrs Hudson, I meant it when I said I needed your forgiveness,” he held up a hand as she started to contradict him. “We both do.”

Mrs Hudson glanced over her shoulder at Greg, but he just shook his head. She looked back at John, waiting.

“No not Greg, because he was only doing what we asked of him – looking out for you. No, I mean me and Sherlock.” He deftly caught the glass as it slipped from her fingers, and put it to one side. Placing his mug next to it, he took hold of her hands, squeezing gently.

“To save the lives of the people he cared for most, Sherlock had to pretend to die, and I helped him.” He paused, watching her face, trying to gauge how well she was taking the news.

The sound of her hand striking John’s cheek ricocheted through the room, followed almost immediately by a gasp as she pressed that same hand to her mouth, a look of shock at her own actions on her face.

John didn’t move, but continued to watch her carefully.

“Alive?  All this time?”

“I’m sorry.”

“But he’s alive? Where is he?”

“I’m here, Mrs Hudson.” The deep baritone carried softly from the doorway. 

Hearing that voice, the elderly lady’s eyes widened, and she rose a little unsteadily to her feet. Turning slowly, as if afraid of what she might see, she lifted her eyes to gaze on a face she thought never to see again, and with a inarticulate cry launched herself at the consulting detective.

John and Greg looked on as the two old friends hugged each other, then John caught Greg’s eye and motioned for the police officer to follow him.

“Let him explain.” he said quietly as he closed the kitchen door behind him.  Catching the worried look on the other man’s face he grinned.  “You’d be surprised how restrained he can be with her.  And that’s nothing to do with me, or what happened six months ago, I think he cares more for her than even he realises.”

Moving methodically around the kitchen, John finished the final dinner preparations while he and Greg talked about inconsequential things, half listening to the murmur of voices from the other room, and when they finally opened the door again to carry the food in, Sherlock and his landlady were sitting side by side on the couch, smiling.

Settling around the table, they fell into general discussion for a while, Mrs Hudson hardly taking her eyes from Sherlock, but as the meal drew to a close John steered the discussion towards the last member of Moriarty’s network.

“We need to make sure our plans for catching Moran are airtight.” He looked at his companions, his eyes taking in their serious expressions.

“Tell us about this Moran,” Greg asked, “what kind of man is he.”

“Ex-Army Colonel – I’ve never met him, but his reputation was bandied about when I was still in Kandahar.” John’s gaze seemed to look right back to those days. “To say that the man was a sadistic bully is probably putting it mildly.”

“He was,” Sherlock added, “Moriarty’s right hand man, his acknowledged successor.  He was the sniper opposite St Bart’s, the man with John in his sights.”

“Oh John dear, will you be safe?”

John smiled confidently.

“If we get the planning right we all will.” He said, leaning forward on his elbows as he outlined the plan that he and Sherlock had formulated.

As Greg listened he watched his companions, Sherlock nodding occasionally as if to emphasise a point, Mrs Hudson nervously watching both of ‘her boys’, as if their plans would make more sense to her that way.  Suddenly he realised that an expectant silence had fallen over their company, and he looked up to see John’s deep blue eyes watching him.

“Wool gathering, Greg?”

The police officer chuckled.

“You seem to have thought of everything John – so what are we missing?”

“What we’re missing is any real knowledge of our enemy.” John dropped his eyes, staring at the empty plate in from of him.  “It’s a little like poking a tiger, you know it’s a dangerous animal but you don’t quite know how it’s going to react.”

“Oh dear!”

“Now Mrs H, there’s nothing for you to worry about.  We’ll just draw him out, I’ll keep Sherlock safe I promise, and Greg will arrest the last of Moriarty’s network.”

“So when do we start?” Greg forestalled and further questions from the landlady.

“I’ll return to 221B tomorrow, and at the same time Mycroft’s team will release conclusive evidence that Sherlock was innocent of all charges.” John smiled. “The day after that, I will escort Sherlock home.”

“Now Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock turned to the landlady. “I will have showed up at several places around town before I come home, in the hopes of drawing Moran out.”

“When he arrives on your doorstep, he’ll be alone to all intents and purposes, but I’ll be watching his back.”

“We need you, dear Mrs Hudson, to react as if you didn’t know I survived the jump.”

“Now don’t you try to sweet talk me young man!” Mrs Hudson gave him a gentle tap on the arm.

“Greg, you’ll be in the flat already – will you bring back up?”

“I’ll have them on standby, John.  What else do you need?”

“A hefty dose of good luck,” John smiled slightly, “and for Moran to not look too closely at the evidence in front of him.”

O*O*O

Sherlock sat on the couch in the living room of 221B, gently running his hands over the worn familiar material, hardly able to believe he was home at last, and although the work was not quite finished, it wouldn’t be long.

Sitting opposite him, in John’s chair, Greg Lestrade went over in his part of the plan in his mind – officers on standby, a gun signed out of the armoury just in case, and as a final preparation he’d slept in John’s room upstairs, ensuring that by the time the curly haired detective arrived home he was wide awake and ready (he hoped) for anything.

John had identified an empty property opposite where, he was sure, Moran would take his killing shot, and that is where John himself was waiting.

As the light began to fade, Mrs Hudson finally went back down to her flat, and Sherlock – according to John’s instructions – turned on the small reading lamps and a floor standing lamp, the combination of which threw odd shadows and created a deceptive view from the house opposite.

Talking quietly, the two men were aware all the time of John’s presence. For Greg it was a strange and unusual feeling, and left him a little uneasy, but for Sherlock it was comforting, after so long together it was home.

When the move was made, it happened swiftly. Out of nowhere, both men heard John’s voice.

“Drop!”

And they did, hitting the floor as the tinkling of a window pane shattering was followed by the dull thud of a bullet hitting wall.

Picking themselves up the two men turned towards the door, only to come face to face with a tall, solidly built man wielding a loaded handgun which he had pointed straight at Sherlock’s chest.

“Neat trick, Holmes, shame it didn’t work” the voice was deep, a voice used to command.

Sherlock stared back at him.

“Moran, I assume.” His voice remained steady, his eyes never leaving the other man’s face. “So who was in the other house?”

“One of my subalterns, he was cashiered at the same time as me, and has been loyal to me ever since.” He smiled, a slow, chilling smile. “He was expendable. And while Watson wasted his time stalking him, I was climbing in through an upstairs window, just waiting for my chance to finish you off…for Moriarty”

He raised the gun, bringing the barrel up level with the younger man’s face.

Later, if either man had been asked what had happened in the next seconds it’s unlikely they would have been able to give a coherent account.  There was a howling, as if a wild animal were screaming in pain; and a flurry of darkness that seemed to sweep up the stairway, through the door and enveloped the ex-army Colonel.  

As they looked on, the darkness pulsated and crackled, and what seemed like minutes was only actually a matter of seconds before sound of a gunshot was heard.

Neither man was entirely sure when it was that they realised that John was standing with his back to them, looking down at the bloody remains of Colonel Sebastian Moran.  His shoulders were heaving, and Greg though he could hear a soft sob, just before Sherlock stepped forward to wrap his arms around the smaller man.

“Are you okay?” his voice was soft as he tightened his hold.

John nodded and stepped away.

“I’m sorry.” He said softly. “I didn’t anticipate this.”

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Greg picked up his mobile and called in the backup team.

“You tried to disarm him, the gun went off. It was an accident, John.”

The doctor looked across at him, and suddenly Greg understood what it was that Sherlock hadn’t been able to put into words that morning.  The storm-tossed blue eyes were filled with the horror or the act of killing.

O*O*O

The police had left hours ago, and Mycroft had advised Greg that the fine detail of the evening would be dealt with by his people.  The flat was as clean as they could manage, and after a shower the detective and his blogger fell wearily into bed.

Curled around John’s warm, solid body, Sherlock nuzzled and stroked his lover, asking nothing more than that the other man relax and rest.

A lazy, calloused hand returned the caresses, before sweeping round to tip Sherlock’s head up, dipping his own head to kiss him deeply and with a desperation borne of sorrow. As the kiss ended they pulled closed, deepening their breathing and letting themselves sink into a dreamless sleep.

O*O*O

Greg groaned as the insistent ringing of his mobile dragged him from sleep, and he squinted at the caller ID.  What he saw there woke him as surely as a bucket of cold water, and he hit the answer button.

“Sherlock?  What’s wrong?”

The sound of sobbing reached him down the phone, and a ball of ice formed in his stomach as he listened to the sound of a fragile heart breaking.

“He’s gone, Greg.  John’s gone!”


End file.
